But with the explosion of the bomb announcing the race, he became all awareness again. With every fiber he heard the starter call out the horses in order.
"Number one, Caterpillar!"
"Number two, Shell!"
"Number three, Forest!" That was Farfalla. Ignoring her injury, she walked briskly to the starting rope. Giorgio reminded himself that of course the doctors had deadened her pain.
As the horses moved to their positions, Giorgio felt his breath coming fast. Turbolento and Farfalla were side by side. "Is it some omen," he asked himself, "that brings us together?"
The starter's voice blared on: "Number four, Tower.... Number five, Snail.... Number six, Wave.... Number seven, Panther.... Number eight, Goose.... Number nine, Turtle!"
Now nine horses in line—pawing, dancing, heads pulling to go. And nine fantinos with faces taut, reins taut, waiting for the number ten horse. Not until he is called to the rope can the race begin.
"Number ten, Unicorn!" the strident voice of the starter fills the Piazza.
Head lowered like a bull charging, the number ten horse gallops up, almost touches the rope. The starter springs it. It snakes free. Ten horses, as one, leap over it!
Giorgio's fingers tighten hard around the nerbo. If he takes the lead, he will not need it. He arrows Turbolento out in front, sets the pace.